


it ain't me

by rosewitchx



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: ????? sorta, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Rick Sanchez Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 00:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewitchx/pseuds/rosewitchx
Summary: Rick knows the signs.





	it ain't me

**Author's Note:**

> edit (9/2/17): look! now it's twice the original size! still written at three am!

Most of the time, Rick Sanchez C-137 is an asshole.

He's like every other Rick, he supposes. Watches over his Morty, does dangerous, maybe-suicidal trips to the outer rims of the Milky Way. Insults people, kills people, destroys places, lives. Regular Rick stuff.

He knows the aftermath as well as any other Rick. Nightmares of the past he can't share with not even Morty. Sleepless nights where hard alcohol and a swiss knife are his only allies. Then, something other Ricks _don't_ experience (and he's 200% certain of this): regret. He could have avoided the deaths of those close to him, had he been stronger. Had he not been a complete _idiot_. He's a genius, but he's weighed down by the perpetual pain of his losses. He could do more if he was like the other lesser versions of himself. If he didn't attach himself to others, _seeking some belonging he does **not** deserve_. He's a _Rick_. He doesn't deserve _shit_.

So Rick knows the signs of a bad night.

He sees them, one morning, on Morty.

It wasn't much at first. Just a kid walking into the kitchen as he tinkered with some machine. Rick had eyed him for less than a second, not really interested in his grandson's poor breakfast choices on a Saturday morning, but ends up staring.

"Geez, who keeps putting empty cereal boxes in here?"

His voice is wavering — he's forcing himself to speak, to act normal, and to Rick's eyes it's like he's shrinking from the world (more than usual, at least).

Rick sees the signs.

"Rick? What's wrong?"

Morty's looking at him, confused. Jesus Christ. His voice was barely a whisper there. He looked like a sad little puppy, abandoned on some dumpster, waiting for _something_ to put it out of its misery. And that's not how he wants his grandson to look like, no. If Rick Sanchez, the smartest thing in every universe possible, has to be miserable, because the universe has ordered it so, then he's not gonna let his Morty feel that way if he has a choice in the matter.

...At least, that's what Rick always told himself he'd do, but now that it's actually happening...

For the first time in his life, Rick Sanchez has no idea how to fix something broken.

So he does what he knows best: _don't think about it._

He returns to his coffee and changes the subject. He knows it sucks to be called out on your unworthiness. "Nothing, Morty. Whatcha having for b-breakfast?"

Morty squints at him. He's literally holding the box on his hands. "...Cereal, I guess." He looks away, at the horrid kitchen tiles.

Rick can almost hear the thousand thoughts racing through his grandson's head. He doesn't mention how obvious he is.

Silence.

"W-we could go grab something," Rick blurts out without thinking — _illogical stupid_ — and he suddenly wants to teleport away and choke on some dick or vodka, whatever comes first. That doesn't stop him from talking. "Go to Shoney's."

Morty looks at him like he's some sort of angel. His eyes light up for the first time that morning. "That'd be cool," he mutters. The ghost of a grin appears on his lips.

So they go to Shoney's, have breakfast, go home, have an adventure with a lighter tone than the ones before it, and that's it for that day. Morty's grinning at the end, quietly chattering about how he shot down the Federation drones on his first try and Rick, for once, doesn't bring down his spirits.

The signs are still there, nights later, when Morty makes his way into the garage. Rick's not sure what time it is (not that he gives a _shit_ ); alcohol's his companion for the evening. He doesn't look at his grandson, at first, just like always. Instead, he quickly ensembles the small machine on his desk, and 'asks' for a screwdriver, maybe a little too loudly. 

Morty stifles down a sob and Rick tenses up, but pretends he doesn't notice. He's just crying. Regular Morty sob. Nothing extraordinary.

The signs are there.

He feels the metallic tip of the screwdriver tapping gently on his shoulder, and hears Morty curse lightly. He grabs the tool and starts to drive in them screws — or that's what he'd done, if the damn thing wasn't caked in blood.

For a beat, he's frozen. The only sound in the room are the small beeps of some machine whose name he cannot fucking remember and his grandson's whimpers. Then, slowly, he turns around on his stool, and looks at the kid.

He's holding his right arm against his shirt, shivering. His pajama shirt is bloodied, and thin streams of the red liquid trickle down the fresh wounds on his arm. The teen flinches at the look on his grandpa's face instantly and Rick slowly stands up and walks to Morty.

"What the _fuck_ , M-morty," he begins, but the kid's sobbing even harder now, curling into himself, hiding from anyone, and that's not what should be happening, even his drunk self can realize that.

So he shakes his head, already thinking of what he'd say, his thoughts racing as he reaches for the first-aid kit Beth had bought once. He'd have gotten a better one from some alien store, but he just hadn't have the energy for that kinda shit recently. He scolds himself for being _lazy_ and not careful enough and pulls Morty closer. Begins working on the wounds, in silence. Yep. They're too clean, too new. He'd recognize them anywhere.

"I—I'm s—s— _sorry_ —"

"S-shut the fuck up and let me finish." Rick's interruption does make the kid quiet down a little, the sobs replaced by some weird, shaky whimpering he couldn't even hear.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when Rick was done. He wiped his hands against the lab coat, knowing he'd have to wash it later, _what a hassle_ , and looked at Morty, his hands on the teenager's shoulders. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

A look into his grandson's eyes had managed to make him forget the words he'd been preparing for a few minutes now.

"I'm sorry," Morty says, calmer this time, emptier, tired. Rick knows the signs. He sees them on himself. On the child in front of him. "I—" he seems to ponder whether or not he should _lie blatantly about it_ , but luckily for him, he decides against it "—I cut too deep. I—"

"Don't ever do that again," Rick hisses, though there's no threat hidden in his words. Just pure, unfiltered panic, an emotion Morty didn't think a Rick could feel.

So Morty just nods, silenty.

None of them sleep very well that night.

The next day, Morty wears an old, long-sleeved shirt and Rick's lab coat is fresh out of the dryer. Feels warm.

Rick knows the signs.

Rick slips the warm lab coat over his grandson's shoulders and neither of them say a word about it.

Morty silently snuggles into it as he bites into his sandwich.

Rick knows the signs. He sees them on himself, on his grandson.

He doesn't know what to do to make them go away, but damn him if he isn't going to try.

**Author's Note:**

> yall ever think about how toxic morty wanted to die and hated himself because  
> boi
> 
> I wrote this in fifteen minutes sorry for any typos or similar nonsense
> 
> this was inspired by this??? https://space-n-sin.tumblr.com/post/164710310362/morty-isnt-okay-and-rick-does-give-a-shit its cool check it out  
> and also this sick mashup https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=D9J9ldSTJrs


End file.
